


Don't Let It In

by cjtheshort



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Clint Barton needs a nap, Comic Book Science, Deaf Clint, Gamma Sickness, I'll just tag as I go, India, M/M, Nanomites, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, gamma radiation, hulkbusters, pink floyd - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3644145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjtheshort/pseuds/cjtheshort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never feed a stray, it will come back.</p><p>In other words, strays feeding strays is just the blind leading the blind and in this case they're in a mine field with lots of big, gaping holes full of snakes so this is just a disaster waiting to happen where neither one of them is going to get out alive.</p><p>Metaphorically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Lots of mental issues ahead here, anxiety, paranoia, some slight dissociation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4/19/15: Edited it. No major story line changes, just some word fixin'.

Missions were both the hardest and the most natural thing in Clint's life. He had been doing them almost everyday since he was nineteen and yet, he could never shake off the post-mission jitters; hyper-vigilance, the constant nagging feeling that something was about to happen and the inability to make his heart stop hammering in his throat. Usually he and Natasha calmed down together, even if he had gone solo, she was always there to help him come out of that terrible state of mind. 

But, as his luck would have it, she was on her own solo mission, for at least another week. So here he was, sitting on the floor of his room in Stark Tower, taking slow measured breaths as he tried to push the smell of gun smoke and blood out of his nostrils. But damn, if it hadn't stained his lungs.

Clint wiped at his nose, drawing his hand back to see it smeared with face paint. Right. He hadn't cleaned himself up yet. He didn't know if he had the energy or even the will to. The four or five steps to the bathroom might as well be a million for the effort it would take. As he forced his aching body up off of the plush carpet, he felt the earth spin and he was running down a flight of stairs after a stray target; a hunter giving chase, urgent commands spilling in over his earpiece- 

Clint sucked in a deep breath, shaking his head to clear out the fog, he staggered like a drunk leaving the bar-stool as he made his way to the sink.  Grabbing a hold of each side, he leaned heavily into his palms. He felt drunk, loopy, paranoid and itching for a fight. He didn't have enough damn eyes, he had too many blind spots and fuck, his hearing was shit but he could hear ribs expanding with someone's breath in the lobby. He gave his head another hard shake, only succeeding in encouraging a headache. 

He licked his dry lips, not minding the taste of sweat and face paint as he turned on the faucet. He jumped at the sound of running water. Clint closed his eyes one more time trying to pull himself out of Yemen, out of that fight, out of the summer where Loki had ruined him. It took three months of a year for SHIELD to even consider letting him near one of their bases, convinced he might slip back under Loki's mind control. Fury still had faith in him, even though others didn't. Phil wasn't there to vouch for him, his superiors watched him the way one watches their children pet a strange dog.  His fellow agents were cautious; their fallen brother's tombstones weighing heavily on their minds. 

The shrinks would have never let him walk if he wasn't so damn good at lying. No, he hasn't had a nightmare in a while. No, there is no urge to hurt himself. No, he's eating just fine, it never happened, he's not broken, he was never broken. But, he was. He was just barely holding together with stitches and Band-Aids, floating about like a spiderweb in the wind. Sure, he knew how to stick, he knew how to cling to an act and believe his own lies because they taught him how.

Clint took hand fulls of the warm water and scrubbed his face with his rough hands, sticking his head under the faucet to let the now hot water clean the dust and gravel from his hair. He would have showered, if he wasn't so afraid of taking his hearing aids out. They might be water proof, but only for a little splash in the sink. A shower would fry them. 

When he finally lifted his head, he took a quick glance at himself in the mirror. A black eye, a split lip, bags under his eyes, bruised cheeks; all telling him a joke he heard a thousand times and long since stopped laughing at. He dried off his face first, pressing his face into the soft terry cloth, wishing he could fight off the paranoia long enough to keep it there, resisting the urge to scream into it. Eventually, the water dripping down his neck annoyed him enough to lazily rub the towel against his hair before dropping it on the floor and unbuckling the pieces of armor from his uniform. 

After stripping down and managing to tug on some old sweats, Clint climbed into his vent and made the journey to the floor above him, room five. Yeah, there was some kind of joke going on about him always creeping through the vents but this was the only way he could get to this particular room. He had even just left the grill off of its vent, seeing as no one ever used the room. The guy who did, Banner, went back to Mumbai after getting some research done. Finding it was an accident. He had gotten drunk one night when he and Natasha were staying here, decided he was going to try and spook her but ended up here instead. He just kept coming back ever since. It was quiet, well lit and had a little cot under the vent that smelled like sandalwood and lavender. 

Clint huffed out a happy breath as he dropped down onto the stiff mattress, immediately tugging the crappy sheets around himself and rolling into a comfortable position, letting his body go slack as his eyes closed. He wouldn't have to worry about anyone bothering him here. He could sleep as sound as a dead man. Everything was quiet enough for him to even considering taking his hearing aids out. Or at least, until he realized he wasn't alone when a sigh come from behind him. 

His heart jumped just as hard as he did, snapping out of his half-asleep state  like a live wire as he got into position to spring at the intruder. His wild eyes locked with a frightened brown pair and he realized he was the intruder here. Because he was baring his teeth at the rightful owner. Dr. Banner. They stared at each other for a few tense seconds, Clint as bristled and stiff as a rabid wolf with Banner being midway to sipping whatever was in his mug and holding the neutral position until he slowly raised his free hand, softly waving it in greeting. Clint's shoulders dropped instantly and he rubbed his forehead with a quiet groan. 

"Sorry. Uh...Didn't think you'd be back." Clint said, a little frightened over the fact that he didn't notice a guy sitting five freaking feet away from him, but he sure as hell panicked over imaginary noises for half an hour. He stood on the bed to climb back in the vent when Bruce stopped him. 

"I don't mind sharing," He said, setting his mug down and Clint looked over his shoulder at him, eyebrow raised. "It looks like you've set up shop here anyways," Bruce motioned to the wad of Sprite cans and Sour Patch Kid wrappers stuffed under the cot. "I just need to run a few tests and I'll be out of your hair." He assured with a smile. 

Clint blinked at him in confusion before narrowing his eyes. This was Banner's place. It was his lab, Stark gave it to him, his name was on the door, yet here this guy was acting like it was Clint's. Hell, Clint even trashed it up with junk food and he still wasn't mad, what the hell was wrong with this guy? Maybe the radiation fried his brain after all.

"I jus' wanted to get some sleep." Clint said, sitting back down in the bed, folding his hands between his knees. He felt like he had to explain his reason for being here. "It's always nice an' quiet down here. No one gets in either." He shrugged before scratching the stubble already starting on his chin. Bruce just gave him a little nod before returning to work, showing that he really didn't mind the other's presence. With that, the archer laid back down on the cot and pulled the blankets around him. "...I'll clean up the mess tomorrow." He said, opening one eye to Bruce. 

"Don't worry about it," Bruce looked over at him with a soft smile. "I've made worse of a mess. I'll do a little spring cleaning tomorrow, get some old papers out of here." Bruce said, not looking away from the screen as he tapped mechanically away. 

"So you're stayin' for a while?" Clint asked, knowing he would have to find another room to call his safe zone. Banner's lab was an accident anyways, he was trying to scare Natasha one night after being drunk, he had fallen in here instead. 

"A while," Bruce confirmed with a soft nod. "Maybe a month. Maybe a little less." He shrugged noncommittally. Clint nodded, curling up for one last night in Vista Banner and taking his hearing aids out as prior planned. Bruce would be gone soon enough anyways, and that tapping was annoying as hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get some meta(is that right?) at cjtheshort.tumblr.com


	2. Hard Work Sucks

The next morning when Bruce came into the lab, the cot was neatly made and the trash underneath it had been cleared out. Not that he was complaining, part of him knew that Clint was going to do it anyways. They had only known each other on passing glances and not counting yesterday, never had an actual conversation except from a softly chimed greeting or farewell. Counting the little interaction they ever had, it was hard to even call them acquaintances. Not exactly strangers, but not exactly friends.

Either way, Bruce had one less thing to worry over as he started stacking his scattered papers together. Everything in the Tower was digital, he had no real use for all the papers except for printing them out so he could take them along(and pray they survive). Some he had decided weren't that important or he had memorized them already so he just left them and hoped Tony got around to cleaning the place. Now, he wasn't being a douche bag by throwing a mess everywhere, he had just gotten so involved with research and forgot what time his plane was leaving and well...ended up scurrying out the door with three seconds to spare. Looking at the place now, he was glad Tony hadn't come down here or he wouldn't have let him back in.

Whatever Clint found so comforting about a paper-filled wonderland, he'd probably never know. Bruce was pretty sure they had some kind of unspoken discussion about the disheveled archer never coming back since he had moved back into the turf. There was only three people living in the Tower now; Tony, having run away from Malibu for some reason he wouldn't speak of, Clint, who moved in officially last month for some reason and now Bruce, just for a month. While Tony wouldn't say anything about his own disturbed appearance-not yet at least, give it two days and he'll be playing therapist again-he wouldn't stop about all the things he speculated was going on with Clint since the archer was distant, to put it nicely, the first time they all met. Not that Bruce could blame him. Having someone in your head, controlling your actions, leaving you with a mess to wipe up, it was tough. Tougher than tough, it was brutal. 

Having successfully cleaned up the entire lab and stacked five piles of paper next to his printer for re-use all in less than the time span of  _Dark Side of  the Moon_  by  _Pink Floyd_ , Bruce sat down and intended to use the remaining eighteen hours of his day plotting through SHIELD files looking for the answer to why hundreds of south Indians were suffering radiation poisoning. Had to government, no two ways about it, and thanks to Tony, he could see who, what, when, where, and why the hell why. Everything was set out, he had a bottle of water, some strawberries from what he bought yesterday and the whole day dedicated to listening to a band he had been physically craving and getting the hell out of New York with fresh information. Instead, as he luck would always have it, a certain blond archer dropped from the vent onto the cot in a fashion a little too similar to last night. Only thing, was instead of going straight to sleep or even giving another startled look, his face dropped like Bruce had run over his dog or stepped on his expensive shoes. Utter annoyance, a little bit of dread and a dash of disgust. A look Bruce had come to associate with showing up to birthday parties in his other life. Or parties period. Or showing up anywhere. Existing, really. 

"Oh." Was all Clint gruffed out, sitting down on the bed and starting to unlace his boots. He did look noticeably exhausted, and dirty. Parts of his face were wiped of grime so the Band-Aids would stick better but that didn't help all the filth in his head. An uneasy feeling settled Bruce's stomach as he nodded awkwardly, pretending to be completely engrossed in his reading. "Shoulda guessed from the music." He mumbled again and Bruce saw him fiddle with his hearing aids out of the corner of his eye. The ex-fugitive scientist cleared his throat softly, trying to dispel that tightness in his chest and sour feeling in his stomach as he pulled on a kind smile. 

"I can leave if you want me to." Bruce said, always surprising himself with the way he could fake being so pleasant. It was a little unnerving for some reason. Clint looked up at him before shaking his head, unlacing his boot a little faster before looking up at him again, this time with his own smile as he pulled off the boot and suddenly Bruce got the vibe that they were moms about to passive aggressively bitch in the middle of a PTA meeting. Probably the way his smile was tight and some how the fact he was getting bare foot seemed so...dominating of the space. 

"Nah, you can stay. I'm jus' gonna take a little nap." The archer assured, starting to work on the other boot remarkably faster than he did the first. "'Sides, it's your place anyways." Bruce couldn't help but snort. 'Kind of weird that you're sleeping at my place on a second date' he wanted to say but that was a little weird. Clint might not get it. Of course, when Bruce realized Clint was staring up at him with his hands stilled, face shocked but humored, he realized that he had in fact said it and Clint had _hopefully_ gotten it. After a tense second of silence, Clint let out half wheezed laugh before shaking his head, returning to working on his boot. 

Sometimes when he couldn't go to sleep, Bruce would make a list of them most embarrassing things he's ever experienced in life. This easily replaced the current number three, walking in on Jennifer naked as teenagers, and if the rest of the week proved uneventful, just might find itself at the top. It wasn't until he had muttered that little quip that he realized Clint was very attractive. The first time they met, there was no denying he was a handsome guy but suddenly, he was really freakin' hot. 

"You're a funny guy, Doc." Clint chuckled, pulling off his other boot with a wide grin before standing up and stretching his arms over his head, groaning and humming contently. Switching to another file to look like he was busy, Bruce was determined to keep on track and pray his visitor laid down for the nap he said he was going to take. If jokes were what appeased him, Bruce was fresh out and only stocked with anxiety. "I don't think we've actually ever met for proper-" He squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't think we've been properly introduced." Clint said more carefully, walking over with his still gloved hand stretched out. "Clint Barton." 

"Bruce Banner." He gave him a smile that faltered a little when he took Clint's ridiculously strong hand. It was a firm grip, like the kind politicians give but under it was real power, like a football player's handshake. Wait, why the hell was he comparing handshakes? 

"Don't you mean _Doctor_ Bruce Banner?" Clint smirked, arching a brow as he put his hands in his pockets. Bruce chuckled, lightly shaking his head as he looked back to the stark pad.

"I'm just Bruce today." He said, and if it didn't sound like the stupidest thing he ever said. Bruce focused himself on the _cha-ching_ sound of  _Money_ starting to play, hoping Clint would be contented with that and go to sleep. 

"Oh, hey, I love this song." Clint smiled to himself, looking up towards the ceiling speakers as his hand hand mindlessly escaping its pocket to pick up one of the strawberries. "Mind if I have one?" He asked, a little quickly, trying to show he had manners and some decent raising. 

"Not at all, help yourself." Bruce nodded, glancing up at him for only a second and re-reading the same damn line fifteen times but each time it just seemed more and more alien. The archer pulled off the leaves, leaning back against his table and rolling them up in his fingers as he chewed a little thoughtfully. He rolled and unrolled the leaves about five times before just grinding them up and putting the remains in his pockets. 

"I'll tell ya what, Florida has the best strawberries." Clint remarked, sounding a little distant before looking to Bruce. "I mean, these are good," He assured, lifting a hand and Bruce couldn't help but smile at the thought that Clint might have imagined he was insulting him somehow. "But Florida's are jus'...wow." He waved his hands in emphasis. "Need to see if Stark can get us some Florida strawberries." He said before picking up another one and doing the same he did with the first, fiddling with the leaves while he ate. 

"That sounds nice. I think all the ones from the grocery store are from California." Bruce shrugged softly. "Some Florida ones would be really nice." He flipped through a few more files, doing his best to look unphased and dedicated to his work. Clint nodded before yawning widely and popping his neck, going back to the cot and collapsing in on it. 

"I'll get ya some." He said, wrapping up in the blanket and taking his hearing aids out. "Night, Doc." Clint called and Bruce gave him a little wave in return before he rolled over. After the pressing feeling on his chest left and Bruce had settled down his nerves, he finally started to get some real work done and keeping _Money_ on repeat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter had a little different tone of voice. Weird, huh?  
> Look at me switching POVs. 
> 
> ~follow cjtheshort.tumblr.com for more soft writing~


	3. Comfortable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 155th anniversary of the Pony Express, here's to my childhood.  
> Another slow one, so buckle up.

Bruce rubbed at his eyes, figuring that would help chase the exhaustion away. He had been so good about not taking any work to his room, leaving it in the lab where it belonged, but last night he couldn't help himself. A little routine had been figured out, especially with the help of Clint. Bruce would wake up, do his morning things, come into the lab around nine, then take notes or plunder SHIELD files until Clint fell out of the vent, usually around ten at night. For about an hour or so, he and Clint would make light conversation, listen to music and exchange jokes. Just enjoy each other's quiet company, then Clint would go to sleep and Bruce would finish up his work before leaving Clint to have his privacy. 

There was no contact outside of the lab for them. Bruce realized that when he stumbled into the common floor, seeing Clint relaxing on the couch, watching TV like a normal person or something. For a second, it didn't register to him that Clint was indeed a real person who existed outside of their encounters in the lab. In this exhausted state, Bruce had set him up to be some figment of imagination that his lonely mind conjured up in a desperate bat tempt for contact. The physicist hadn't realized he had stopped to stare, but obviously he had when Clint looked up at him curiously, one side of his mouth quirking into a soft smile as he raised his eyebrows. Trying to be polite as the frumpy scientist gaped at him like he was a ten foot platypus.  Bruce had never seen him look this alive before, eyes bright and visibly  alert without a trace of fear or anxiety on him. When he crawled into the lab he always looked like the bottom side of a boot.

"Finally joinin' the land of the livin'?" He teased, smile growing. Bruce rubbed at his eyes again, mildly embarrassed by the smile as he stumbled into the little open kitchen. It was ridiculous how just one night of lost sleep was doing this to him, he hadn't been here two weeks and the domestic atmosphere was already softening him.

"Didn't sleep." Bruce managed to answer, opening the fridge. What he wouldn't give to be able to just chug coffee until he felt not-half-dead, like the good old days in college. Nothing in the massive fridge seemed appetizing enough at the moment, leaving Bruce to just stare at it blankly for a few more seconds before something familiar hit his ears. "Are you watching _True Grit_?" He asked, closing the door just enough that he could peek around it to see the TV. 

"Yup. The old one, not the new one. New one sucks." Clint stated in such a matter of fact tone that Bruce couldn't help but snort.

"I didn't know they made a new one." Bruce admitted, grabbing a bottle of orange juice just so he wouldn't have an empty stomach. He didn't know why there was a bunch of little bottles of these, a normal gallon sized would have worked just as well.  All they had to do was just get a glass, it wasn't that hard. Just a little extra work. This was going to cause a lot more pollution than necessar- Bruce gave his head a soft shake, blinking a few times as he tried to reign in his thoughts. Being this exhausted over only one night of lost sleep? That was something to worry about. "How bad was it?" He asked, figuring he should at least be polite by keeping the little conversation going.

"Like, really bad." Clint said, scooting over a little as Bruce sat down on the end of the couch. Clint had this (bad) habit of sitting in the middle of the couch, so which ever side he chose, he'd be next to him. Now that he bought about it, he could have sat on one of the love seats flanking the sofa. Too late to get up and change seats now. "You just have to see it, it's so bad." He insisted, giving an overly exaggerated wave. All Bruce could do was nod, an amused smile playing on his lips as he focused on the screen in front of them. John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn sitting down at a crappy table littered with cards as his cat and Asian cook milled around in the background. 

 _"Give me your cup."_ He said, reaching out his hand to Kim Darby playing the innocent looking Mattie Ross. Bruce caught slight movement in his peripheral vision, looking over and seeing Clint was mouthing the words.

 _"I don't drink coffee, thank you."_  
_"Well, now, what do you drink?"_  
_"I'm partial to cold buttermilk."_  
_"Well, we ain't got none of that. We ain't got no lemonade neither!"_

Clint's lips were spot on with the words, not failing once. Did he have all these lines memorized? These weren't even the memorable or iconic ones.

"How many times have you seen this movie?" Bruce asked with a soft chuckle, arching a brow. Clint just looked down with an almost embarrassed smile, shrugging softly.

"Uh, I don't know," Clint muttered, scratching at the back of his head before looking up at Bruce. "Maybe once or twice."

"Once or twice." Bruce echoed with a nod, sipping at his orange juice. All the memories that went along with John Wayne's voice almost made him want to get up and leave. A childhood spent in misery, trying to find some way to defend himself with copying a gruff voice and a fearless disposition. The belief that by imitating the very incarnation of masculinity itself would earn him at least a scrap of respect.  Actually, it got him bullied more.

 They fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the movie together with Clint still lip-syncing along with every line. Bruce always assumed he made people uncomfortable, no matter what. It started in third grade when a girl refused to be partnered with him because he was 'spooky'. In high school he was a 'creeper'. Then in college he was just 'that guy, the one I told you about' from when he'd over hear friends whispering. Of course, the Hulk incident didn't help boost his confidence level any. So when he noticed Clint had his arm lazily draped around the back of the couch, just above his shoulders, it was more than a little shock. He supposed since they became...room-sharers, for lack of a better term, that yeah, they had been getting comfortable with each other. Still didn't help the anxious tossing in his stomach, not at all aided by the tang of orange juice or the amazing thrill of sleep deprivation. 

"Hey, me and Nat are gonna grab some Chinese, you want some?" Clint suddenly spoke, catching Bruce off guard. The scientist turned to look at him, making sure that he actually spoke before he went and replied. 

"Uh, yeah." Bruce nodded, blinking a few times before nodding. "Yeah, Chinese sounds good." 

The second Bruce had finished his sentence, Natasha walked past in civilian garb, nodding her head towards the elevator. Clint was up in a flash, going to join her and leaving Bruce with the strangest feeling of abandonment? No, disappointment? That didn't fit either. Maybe, jealousy? It wasn't that. Clint hadn't even turned around to say bye. Was this really bothering him? He knew Clint was about to leave. With a heavy sigh, Bruce downed the rest of his orange juice and stood up with a grunt, stumbling back down the hallway to find his bed. This emotion business could wait until he was a tad more sentient. 

 

 

 

 


	4. Confucius Say

"Look, all I'm saying is maybe you could go for a walk outside or something?" Tony offered again, one hand on his hip and the other swiping away the file Bruce kept trying to load on the monitor in front of him. The rashy feeling of irritation was setting on the back of his neck, but he remained patient in appearance, continuing the little tug-o-war. "Would it really kill you just to look at the sun?"

"No, but it may blind me." Bruce smiled softly and Tony rolled his eyes. Tony had a paler, 'interrupted' complexion but at least he hadn't let it reach his spirit. "I'm just trying to do research, you're the one who's living here." The physist shrugged, pulling up the file one more time. Maybe that was too touchy to bring up, he hadn't said a word about Malibu or Pepper or Rhodey or anyone he used to talk about from Malibu. From his prior life, pre-Iron Man, pre-Avengers. That wasn't his business, not yet at least.  

"Hey, you're living here too, Brucie-bear." Tony swiped it down, causing Bruce to suck in a patient breath before pressing his lips into a thin line. "For, what, at least another two weeks? More? Maybe?" He asked, Bruce giving a noncommittal gesture in reply. Tony obviously wasn't happy with those numbers. "All I'm saying is get comfy, you know? You might just like it.  Go see the Big Apple, I'll take you out to a night on the town- hell, a week on the town!" Tony attempted to rally some enthusiasim but Bruce had never looked further away from saying 'yes' as he swiped the file back up, eyes locked on Tony's. 

"Sorry, Doc's booked," Clint's voice came from the corner, making Tony jump and whirl around like he'd been shot. Clint grinned at him as he landed on the cot, turning around the pull the plastic bag out of the vent before hoping down and striding over to them. Despite the signs of violence marking him, he looked confident and relaxed as ever. Bruce offered him a ghost of a thankful smile, trying to ignore the dark bruise splattered across Clint's left cheek. "Shoulda made a reservation." He gave him a wide, mock apologetic shrug before setting the bag in front of Bruce and pulling up a stool to sit across from him. Tony stared at Clint before turning to Bruce with his eyes wide, brows furrowed and mouth open to say 'you're going to let him get away with that?'. All Bruce could do was offer a shrug before closing out of the file and turning off the monitor. 

"We'll go for a night on the town tomorrow." Bruce assured Tony, who snapped his fingers and pointed at him as he backed away. 

"I'm gonna hold you to that." Tony said, clicking his tongue as he backed into the elevator. Bruce offered him one final wave as the doors shut. 

"So did I save you or did I save you?" Clint joked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, indicating where Tony left before pulling the containers out of the bag. 

"He's not so bad." Bruce shrugged softly. "We just have...different energy levels. And attention spans." He scratched at his chin, twisting up his lips. "He's a great guy, sometimes a handful. But, looking at everything he's done for me." Bruce gestured around him to the magnificent lab, a warm, full feeling over taking his chest. 

"Yeah, he's a pretty good guy." Clint agreed, opening the Sesame chicken and licking the stray sauce off his fingers. "He's lettin' me stay here for free. Pretty nice in my boo-ah, shit, that's still hot." He hissed when he picked up one of the egg rolls, shoving it back in the rice paper bag before tugging the whole thing onto the table to cool. 

Bruce immediately eyed bright red words printed all over it, smiling to himself. Did everything that came from a Chinese restaurant have to have wisdom or a riddle slapped all over it? 

"When is a door not a door?" He read, cutting Clint off from muttering to himself about the hot food. The archer started up at him, frozen in mid-stir for the vegetables, expression slightly alarmed. "When it's ajar." The words caused Bruce's mouth to curl into a smile. Clint continued to state for a second before letting out the snort/wheezing sound of snickering, shaking his head as he resumed stirring. 

"Oh, man." Clint laughed, pushing the bowl towards him. "I got one for you." He sat up a little, clearing his throat like he was a out to make an address.  "Why did Yellow divorce Red?" 

"Victims of statistics?" Bruce guessed, using one of the lids as a plate and picking through the vegetables. 

"No, 'cause Red blue Green." Clint proudly crossed his arms over his chest and Bruce choked out a snort. "What you have anythin' better?" 

"You mean worse? And yes, I do." Bruce looked over his glasses at him, accepting the challenge. Clint held his hands up before staring to make his own plate. "What blood type does a keyboard have?" 

Clint offered a shrug as he tried to roll a few nuggets of chicken on to his makeshift plate. 

"Typo." Bruce said, suppressing a chuckle from how Clint paused to glare up at him. The blond shook his head before pressing his lips together in thought.

"You know how geese fly in a 'V'? And sometimes one side is longer than the other?" Clint asked and Bruce nodded. "You know why?" He arched a brow and Bruce pretened to ponder for a moment. "Because there's more geese on one side." And then it was Bruce's turn to glare before hiding his smile with a mouth full of steamed broccoli. 

 "All you're gettin' is veggies?" Clint asked and Bruce nodded, pointing to the plate and himself to indicare he was a vegetarian as well as he could. "Oh..." Clint said, a little gravely. "I could never be a vegetarian. I think it would be a _huge-missed-steak_." 

Bruce stopped chewing just to stare at him, a wide expectant grin plastered on Clint's face. Bruce slowly shook his head before rolling his eyes, making Clint cackle in victory. 

"Alright," Bruce said, swallowing his food and thinking quickly before a smirk settled on his lips. "I got one-" And the rest of their take-out meal was spent exchanging the worst puns, dad jokes, 'something walks into a bar' and Little Johnny cracks they had in their inventory. Usually Bruce would have found some way to end the interactions by now, since too much of a good thing equaled very bad things. He'd get too comfortable just to have someone pretend not to recognize him the next day. But this wasn't high school, they were both adults here(as if that some how changed anything), and Bruce was feeling more awake than he had in months. Maybe this would be just the right amount of a good thing. He hadn't rolled his eyes or not-laughed this much in twenty something years. 

"And the rope replies, 'nope, I'mma frayed knot." Clint grinned as tried to suppress a laugh, because there was no way he was laughing at a punchline that stupid, as he unwrapped his fortune cookie. He didn't even like the things, they tasted like lemon soaked cardboard and gasoline, but he did like whatever fake deep things the strip of paper had to say. Clint rooted through the bag full of napkins before finding his, tearing the plastic wrapper to shreds and cracking open the cooking, unfolding the little paper.

"Mine says, 'Confucius say man who stand on toilet, high on pot.'" Clint read out, trying to hide the expectant look in his eyes as Bruce sucked in a deep breath to replace the laugh wanting to come out. Bruce unfolded his and squinted at it.

"'Man who in front of car get tired'." Bruce said as Clint barked out a laugh, muttering something about having to remember that one. "Actually, it says 'never trust a fool'. Which is kind of a given." He put it on the trash pile before starting to clean up the mess. Clint smoothed out the edges of his for a second longer. 

"'The moments that make you happy, make you wise'." He read out in a softer tone, holding it for a second longer before rolling it up and throwing it in the bag. "You gonna eat those?" He asked, voice louder as he pointed to Bruce's forgotten fortune cookie. The physicist shook his head and Clint stuffed both pieces in his mouth before helping the other clean up. They were most of the way done when a notice popped up on one of the monitors. "You get it, I got this." Clint waved him away, stuffing his own fortune cookie in his mouth. Bruce slipped on his glasses, seeing that it was an updated SHIELD file. Tony must really have his fingers in deep to be getting notices about these. 

"Panaji, India?" Clint asked over his shoulder before looking like he had been caught stealing. 

"Yeah, it's a major city. With severe radiation poising, according to this." Bruce motioned, quickly scanning through the report for the bare boned facts. It was the same as the other areas with the same case, but this was a major city, and the ones Bruce had come back to investigate were tiny villages. "Usually radiation poising starts out small, one or two people but this has been ten to fifteen people getting sick. Except here, thirty two people diagnosed." He steepled his fingers, pressing them to his lips as he fought frustration. Seventy three files on this subject, seventy three files read and he wasn't a single step closer to an answer. 

"That's where Natasha was sent." Clint spoke in a distant voice, jaw clenching as he started tearing at the egg roll bag in his hand. "Middle of a mission, too. Just...scooped her up." His eyes settled on the wall next to Bruce, breathing minutely increasing. 

"I'm sure she'll be okay, Clint." Bruce assured, his chest feeling tight at hearing his own words. Hearing his own lies, more like. "SHIELD wouldn't send one of their best agents if they knew she wasn't going to make it back." 

Clint barked a silent laugh, looking up at the ceiling. "Yeah...yeah, you're right." His tone was flat as his spoke, gathering all the things and stuffing it into the trash before pulling off his boots and flopping on the cot, facing the wall. His hearing aids were still in, obviously not planning on sleeping as much as just wanting to be left alone. So Bruce put on _Money_ , since the archer said it was his favorite once not so long ago. SHIELD obviously was interested in this too, which only made a bigger fire under Bruce's butt. If he didn't get back to India soon, a lot of innocent people were going to get hurt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And on your right, you'll see a plot forming. Kinda.


	5. The Leaving

Even top of the line printers were hopeless piles of junk. Bruce gave it a tap, then a harder one before slapping the side of it as it shrieked and sputtered, jammed. He huffed out a harsh breath, resisting the urge to smash it as he picked up the already printed notes and started tucking them in his satchel. Treating these people wouldn't be easy, but Bruce had to do it. No one on Earth knew radiation like he did. He could get these people to hospitals, inform the staff on how to handle this illness and maybe even work a favor with Tony to have to equipment shipped over. Wait, Tony-the elevator pinged open.

"Its party time, what are doing still working?" Tony asked, arms spread as he stepped off the elevator in his party suit. "You're not wearing this out, are you?" He asked lowly out of the corner of his mouth, tugging at the drab olive green T-shirt Bruce wore. "I know you have a reputation, or whatever to uphold but-"

"It's for India." Bruce cut in, knowing that if he didn't shoot this horse now, he was just going to let it limp to its death. Tony's face dropped, brow knitting together.

"You said two more weeks." Tony said slowly, hands dropping to his sides.

"I know," Bruce inhaled, nodding. "I know I did. But, people need me, Tony." He tapped the bag at his side, heavy with notes and translations. "People are dying and only I can save them." He held Tony's disappointed gaze for a moment longer before dropping his eyes and clapping his hands together. "I should-"

"Now wait," Tony stuck out his arm to stop him. "Come on, one more night. Just one. That's all I'm saying, call it a farewell party if you will." He managed a chuckle at the end. Bruce felt uneasy for a second, hearing how different Tony sounded then when they first met. Or even from the first of the week. Something was wrong, but Tony had to fix it, Bruce couldn't help himself, how was he going to help Tony? All he could do was give him this dance.

"Okay." Bruce nodded, dropping his satchel. "But I'm staying casual."

 

* * *

 

Most of the night had been a blur. Bruce was sure that he had fun, but all he could remember was something urgent being masked by laughter. Something the dirties margaritas and 'just water for me-s' couldn't fix. Either way, Bruce was sure to bring Tony home before the night got away with them.

He wanted to remember it, honestly, he did. He wanted to treasure it and think about it when he was low and laugh about it years from now, but Bruce could only think about Tony's strained laughter and too wide smile, like he was biting back words. Caging them with his teeth lime he was doing Bruce a favor with it. Except for now, when he was swaying and giggling while Bruce scrambled for any grip he could on the wiggling man.

"Tony, come on." Bruce gritted his teeth, making Tony laugh a little louder as Bruce grabbed i to his sides. He passionately muttered gibberish as he grabbed for the other's face, knocking Bruce's glasses askew. "Tony." He said firmly, time standing still as the billionaire paused for only a second before falling into a laughing fit.

"Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Brucie-Brucie-Boy! Oh, Brucie-Boy!" Tony sang out as the exasperated physicist managed to grasp the door handle and twist it just enough to nudge the door open. "Listen, I gotta-I have to tell you something-" He stage whispered.

"Tony, feet, your feet, stand on your-" Bruce hurried out, trying not to shout as Tony toppled them both onto the bed, himself wedged under Bruce. "Tony." He said flatly as the drunk one just grinned and took the rustled scientist's face into his hands.

"I gotta tell you somethin' suuuupper important, okay?" Tony slurred loudly.

"Okay," Bruce said in his most patient tone. "What is it?"

Tony stared up at him for a second before leaning up next to his ear. "Have a nice flight." He whispered before breaking into near hysterical laughter.

Bruce let out a slow breath before untangling himself from his (overly) intoxicated friend, pulling off his shoes and tucking him under the blankets. He was going to be hurting like hell in the morning. Tony was still giggling softly when Bruce closed the door, slipping his hands under his smudged glasses so he could bury his face in them. It wasn't a good feeling when Tony was like that. Bruce got the impression he wasn't actually that drunk, just dodging whatever he had been dodging the whole night. Bruce let out a soft groan and dropped his hands, trudging to the elevator.

He fought with the printer a little more, making himself stop before he damaged it. No way he could ever even hope to afford to pay Tony back for it. So Bruce did the next logical thing and began handwriting the notes he was going to need. After twenty pages or so, he leaned back, massaging his neck and wondering if he could squeeze eight hours of sleep out of three. He let out a deep sigh, opening his bleary eyes and instantly yelping.

"Jesus Christ." Bruce grabbed his chest, hunching over the desk as Clint smiled shyly at him.

"Uh, no it's 'Clint', remember?" His smile widened a bit as he spoke. Bruce shook his head as he leaned back with a soft sigh.

"You scared the crap out of me." Bruce rubbed at his forehead, trying to steady himself. Once again, he was just a few hours past when he usually went to sleep and he was already completely exhausted. He kept his eyes closed for a few more seconds.

"So uh...what's all this?" Clint asked, tone slightly hesitant. Bruce didn't even open his eyes, just flopped his hand in a lazy wave.

"Packing up to leave." He answered, tempted to lean over the table and fall asleep right there. Only two more hours until his flight left.

"Leave?" Clint furrowed his brow, his voice so packed with concern that Bruce had to open his eyes, seeing an almost hurt expression on Clint's features. There were also fresh bruises and cuts. Bruce remembered that when he came in, the cot was empty. He was so concerned with getting packed he hadn't noticed it.

"Yeah, I-" Bruce straightened up, line of vision dropping so that he saw the carton of strawberries Clint tightly gripping. "Strawberries?"

Clint looked slightly confused before looking down at his hands. "Oh, yeah, uh, I just wanted to apologize for last night." He drummed his fingers on the underside of the little plastic box as he shifted on his feet.

Bruce watched him for a moment, trying to recall last night through his current fog. Nothing worth apologizing for had happened, at least not that he could remember. Clint took his silence as a rejection and drew in a deep breath.

"I don't usually say stuff like that, but I was real angry and I-"

"Clint." Bruce interrupted him calmly, making the archer hesitantly meet his eyes, searching the scientist's face. "Nothing happened." He assured but Clint didn't look convinced. "We talked a little about India and Natasha and then you went to bed." Bruce added, watching as Clint slowly relaxed, the memory coming back to him.

"Oh." He said, letting out a breath before biting his lip in embarrassment. "I guess these are still yours." Clint muttered, setting the carton next to his stack of papers. "So you're goin' to India? For the radiation and stuff?" He stuck his hands in his back pockets, still shuffling on his feet.

"Yeah, I'm hoping I can help the people if not figure out what's causing it." Bruce stood up, suddenly feeling like his clothes were made of lead. He hoped he could find the root of the problem, there was no way hey could get that many people out of harm's way. It seemed like the radiation was spreading, and not in a normal pattern. It jumped from several towns to across the entire country. This caused several concerns such as irresponsible dumping, possible illegal trading of radioactive materials or even nuclear testing in populated areas.

"You said you were headed to Pangea right?" Clint asked in a serious tone. Bruce looked up at him before cracking a small smile.

"Panaji." He corrected. "And yes, that's where I'm landing. In-" He looked at his watch. "I have to leave in an hour and a half." With a hard sigh he started to double time his packing efforts, hating the fact that he wouldn't get to have all the notes he wanted for this trip. He'd just have to remember them.

"I'll come with you." Clint chirped, moving towards the elevator. Bruce looked up, blinking quickly as he tried to process what Clint said. 

"No, Clint, you can't come with me." He called out, shaking his head as the agent stopped and looked back at him.

"Why not?" He asked, brows furrowed together.

"It's a highly radiated area, that's why not. I'm immune to it by now, but you're not. Besides, you have to stay for your job." Bruce shrugged the last part, hoping that was the end of this conversation.

"I have leave for two weeks banked-"

"It's going to take longer than two weeks." Bruce cut him off, tone firm.

"Well, I can-" Clint moved to scratch the back of his neck but froze when Bruce looked up at him, eyes dead.

"Clint. You're staying." He said serious voice, watching the agent for a few more seconds before returning to packing. He could hear Clint behind him, shuffling on his feet and fidgeting with his shirt.  
Bruce was hoping that he'd give up and leave, accept the fact that he wasn't coming on this. Why would he want to? There were going to be leagues of sick people and wasting land not to mention some very serious dangers. It made no sense at all. Besides, Bruce wouldn't be able to keep track of someone else while he was working. If Clint got sick or hurt in anyway, there would be no forgiveness for it. Not from SHIELD, Natasha, the team, or even himself. He was trying to keep him safe.

Bruce pulled his satchel over his shoulder, looking over at where Clint had been standing, finding him gone. He must have done as Bruce hoped and just went to bed. He glanced back over at the table, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything when his eyes landed on the strawberries. A peace offering for something that didn't happen. He sighed as he picked them up, walking out the door to make the flight on time. There was no being late this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is too short for it to have taken as long as it did.


	6. Adventure Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this with a headache, may go back and edit this when it clears up. I would also like to add that I have never been to Panaji and got all my info from the Google. So, this Panaji is...not canon Panaji...so to say. Can you take creative liberties with real places? I don't know, but I did. I also did my best to keep the culture and all intact. If something is wrong, slap-I mean, message me.

Tony Stark's heart wasn't just radiant with blue light, it was also radiant with kindness. The kind of kindness that gave Bruce a private jet to take to India instead of being packed in coach between two noisy tourists. The second Bruce had climb aboard and barely sat down, he had fallen asleep. It would be fifteen hours to India, he needed fill up as much of it with sleep as he could. Who knew what he was going to be facing when they touched down, but he did know he couldn't be dealing with these little exhausted spells while trying to help. Hopefully it was just a little phase of some sort that his body was enduring. It wasn't like he could get sick, not anymore. 

Around twelve hours into the flight, Bruce finally woke up. He stretched his cramped back as he looked around the cabin; velvet seats, plush red carpet, mahogany tables and an empty mini bar in the corner, all a true show of opulence. Bruce rubbed at his cheek, trying to coax the life back into it from where he had been smashed it against the table for so long. He blinked the heavy sleep out of his eyes as he faced forward, freezing the second his vision focused on what was across from him. The familiar face of Clint Barton dozing, head lolled to the side and arms crossed loosely over his chest. Bruce stared for a few seconds, hoping that his vision would clear and this would turn out to be a trick of the light or him just having finally caved into insanity. The plane shifted, turbulence shivering through the cabin, causing Clint to jerk awake, wild blue eyes darting around the cabin before landing on Bruce. They stared at each other for a few moments of tense silence, Bruce looking like someone woke him up just to inform him that his dog had gotten run over and Clint figured out to look terrified and annoyed at the same time. 

"...Mornin'." Clint muttered, crossing his arms a little tighter across his chest, trying to manage a poker face but the  anticipation boiling under his skin seeped through the thin mask.

"You're here." Bruce spoke, his tone a little tighter than he expected. Getting upset just after waking up wasn't healthy, especially for him. Either of them, really. "You-oh my God, you're here." He jerkily rested his elbow on the table, pressing his chin into the palm of one hand as the other curled tightly around his elbow. Bruce sucked in a deep breath before blowing it out his nose, eyes wide and daring the archer to say anything but an apology. Clint unfolded his arms, tucking his hands under his thighs with a soft cough before nodding.

"Yeah. 'M here." He coughed again, looking down at the table before glancing back up at Bruce, managing a half-smile. Bruce's face dropped into something of shock and disbelief, hand dropping away from his mouth. 

"I-I-" Bruce stuttered over his words before dragging his palms down his face. "...Clint...I told you," He drew in a deep breath, tapping his finger on the table to accent his words. "To stay in New York-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you told me to stay in New York," Clint bobbed his head like a rebellious teen. "but what are you going to do about it now, kick me out of the plane?" He arched a brow but his smart-ass smirk died a little when Bruce's face seemed to agree with the suggestion. 

"Why are you here?" Bruce asked calmly, masking the fire crackling in his chest.

Clint watched watched him for a moment, pursing his lips before looking out of the small window. Only thing he could see were fields of thick clouds rolling in the sunset, made it seem like they weren't even traveling somewhere. They were just suspended in time, hanging out above the crowded cities and barren farmlands, taking a break from the chaotic life on the ground. Usually, it would have been the perfect escape; except for right now when he needed an escape from the person he was locked in with.

"Why are you here?" Bruce repeated, clasping his hands together. Clint started bouncing his leg, refusing to look away from his window. "Clint."

The agent folded his arms behind his head as he sunk lower in his seat, finally daring to look Bruce in the eye. The only thing exchanged between them was the sound of their steady breathing. That soon became a sort of competition, seeing who was obviously the calmest and most relaxed, least bothered with this situation. Clint stubbornly stating that he wasn't ever going to talk as Bruce conveyed with every measured breath that he had all day. 

The ember glow of the sunset eventually burned away into cool darkness, and neither of them had broken their friendly staring game. Clint had rested his head on the table between them, showing Bruce that he wasn't intimidated in even the slightest form. He kept watching Bruce's face for any signs of growing irritation or a sure victory when he noticed that the scientist's eyes had a distant look in them. He wasn't paying attention to this-incredibly important-competition at all. Clint tested his theory, making his left eye twitch to see if it had any effect on Bruce. Nothing. Already bored, he continued, gradually making his faces more and more atrocious, taking some sort of humor out of Bruce's blank expression.

Clint scrunched up his nose, stuck his tongue out, and made his best double chin at the moment Bruce snapped back into reality. The agent froze as Bruce's eyes widened minutely. Clint remained motionless for a few more moments before wiggling his tongue slightly, snorting out a laugh when Bruce shut his eyes, unimpressed. For a second there, Clint thought he had upset the soil to their little friendship. Maybe he had, maybe the little sigh Bruce gave wasn't a thumbs up. But his brown eyes had lost that glint of viciousness to them, so that was a good sign. He'd just have to find out where they were standing.

"Are you going to tell me why you stowed away?" Bruce asked softly, gently massaging his temples with one hand as he slowly opened his eyes. Clint shook his head, shifting so he could put his feet on the table, stretching out like an old cat in a sunspot. Bruce gave them the same unimpressed look he gave Clint's temporary pass-time before pushing them off, wiping at the imaginary dirt on the table. 

"What're ya gonna do if I tell you?" Clint yawned, attempting to squirm into a comfortable position. 

"Well, there's not much I can do." Bruce admitted with a soft shrug. "But it would put a _certain worry_ to rest if I knew that you weren't tagging along just to spy on me." He rested his chin in his palm, tapping his temple twice before giving Clint a sweet smile.

"This isn't field work." Clint answered flatly. "It's not a mission or an op or a..." He waved his hand airily. "Whatever you wanna call it." 

"Then you should have no problem answering me." Bruce said, making Clint's jaw tense slightly. Bruce was usually good at reading people, well, good at reading common people. Clint was trained to hide his intentions and motions, but Bruce sensed that it was too well practiced to just be training. It was survival. There was no doubt Clint came from somewhere hard and rough, it was just too obvious. 

"Never been to India." Clint muttered, starting to trace non-nonsensical patterns on the tabletop.

"Am I supposed to believe that?" Bruce arched a brow, crossing his arms over his chest.

Clint shook his head. "Nah." He watched as his hand mindlessly looped and swirled for a while before he slapped the table, as if trying to beat the urge out of himself. "I'm looking for Natasha." He answered, taking Bruce's silence as a time to elaborate. "We lost verbal contact with her twenty hours ago, which isn't uncommon or nothin', but then her location signal turned on which," Clint laughed roughly, shaking his head. "Don't happen. Ever. Then...it just," He gestured aimlessly before looking up at Bruce. "Cut off."

Bruce of course, wasn't very moved. His features had shifted from normal, pleasant smiled, ever patient Bruce to something haggard and warning. It reminded Clint of when he was ten, peaking in the dancing bear's cage to look at the newborn cubs but only caught a glimpse of the wary mother instead. All he needed was a glimpse to know that he wasn't welcome there. "Do not lie to me, Clint." Bruce sounded out slowly, making Clint's sides clench. 

"I'm not lying." The agent said firmly, lifting his head and straightening his shoulders. "I think I would have made up somethin' a little better."

Bruce's brow arched ever so slightly as he continued to stare down Clint, seeking any possible hint of trickery. The only approval the archer got was when he finally looked away, picking up his bag  from the floor as the plane began descending. 

* * *

 "What?" Clint called over his shoulder, pushing his inner ear hearing aids into place. "Couldn't hear you, was switchin' ears." That and this place as so much busier than he had originally expected. 

"I said I'm glad I caught this before the monsoon came." Bruce said a little louder as they walked out of the airport, Clint taking a deep breath of this new city. The thick smell of burning wood, exotic spices and marigolds mixed in with the typical smells of old rubber, car oil, gravel and cheap cigarettes that cities had. He shifted his backpack a little, hating that he had brought his tactical bag instead of a normal one. Something about the way it sat was pushing him deeper and deeper into a mission mindset. In a way, it was. He was looking for Natasha, and that was mission enough. Bruce motioned for him to keep up through the crowds as he moved towards a little stand where a guy was handing out tickets. 

This was the first time Clint had ever seen him so dressed down. It seemed like Bruce had been born in a button down and dress pants, but here he was in a T-shirt and jeans like a normal person or something. He stood behind him, listening as Bruce said something in the native language that made the man behind the stand laugh. They chatted back and forth for a few minutes, surprising Clint with just how out-going he seemed. Bruce was usually quiet. Even in the little domestic setting of the Tower, someone had to approach him first for conversation. Obviously Tower dwelling Bruce and 'out in the world' Bruce were two completely different people.

Bruce took a ticket from the man, still smiling as he turned to Clint and nodded to his left before starting to cut through the crowd. Clint had a little trouble keeping up, seeing as Bruce was on the shorter side and his dark hair blended in with the mass of people swarming around them. The nearly obnoxious orange glow of the street lights mixed with the strobe of cars passing didn't help. The overwhelming sounds of people chatting and yelling to the base of motorbikes whizzing by with old cars rattling down the road only made him want to take his hearing aids out. Once Clint caught up to the amazingly swift scientist, he instinctively grabbed onto his shoulder, jumping a bit when Bruce slapped his own hand over his.

"Public displays of affection are a no-no." The physicist smiled over his shoulder at him before patting his hand and stepping out from under his grip. "The taxi is just up here." Bruce motioned up the street. "Also, no pointing, it's rude."

"Yeah, it's also kinda rude to look away from me when you're talking." Clint huffed softly, following him to the dark green taxi that was some model of car he'd never seen in his life.

"Sorry, very distracted." Bruce muttered back as he opened the door, climbing in first and giving the address to the driver who briefly turned around to look at him funny. Clint plopped down, resisting the urge to look behind him as the car began to move into the chaotic herd of other various unnameable cars. 

With a slow breath, Clint gripped his own knees, watching as Bruce pulled out something resembling a Nokia phone. He held it out to him, the agent taking it after a second of hesitation. "What's this for?" Clint asked, turning it over a few times, eyeing the gauges and dials. 

"Geiger counter. Sorta." Bruce answered simply, still searching for something in his messenger bag. "Don't turn it on yet."

"Sure thing..." Clint scoffed softly, not even sure how. SHIELD had taught him how to use these things, but not this version. Maybe SHIELD had a funding issue or something, giving the agents older equipment. Or this was something Tony had whipped up. Probably that.

"When we get to Panaji, keep it on you," Bruce slipped his glasses on as he took out a kazoo shaped thing, sliding the side back and forth a few times. Clint was a growing more and more interested in just how much might be hiding in that innocent brown bag. "And if you find a place that has a reading higher than four, press this and it will mark it on the map." He instructed, tossing it to Clint as he pulled out a few more things. 

"'Map'?" Clint questioned, leaning over to eye the stash of unidentifiable tools and tech he had in his lap.

"Yes, map. Its all digital, I need it to show the Indian government so we know where to quarantine." Bruce explained, earning only a more confused look from Clint. 

"Wait...you're going to face the government with this?" The agent asked, wondering if it wasn't such a great idea to catch a ride with Mr. Mad Scientist.

"Not my government, and I'm doing it low key." Bruce glanced over at him with a sharp smile before returning to his sorting and hunting. 

Clint really had to start rethinking what he knew about Doctor Banner. He tried to make it a point not to assume with people, but for some reason, he was content in believing Bruce just did harmless science all day and sipped tea before going on long vacations. Bruce was just that disarming.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ╭( ･ㅂ･)و


	7. Birth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Gore, slight body horror, Major Character injury.

  
The static hum of voices was filled with grumbling motors, squealing brakes, and obnoxious car horns that seemed more like Nokia ringtones. The birds screaming from seemingly no where weren't helping any. Nothing was helping, actually. It was similar to New York in means of the insane noise pollution and the crowds, but one thing was distinctly different. Everywhere Clint turned, he was under the sun, there were no skyscrapers to shelter him here.

He kept trying to shelter his eyes with his hands as he stitched together some sort of plan to find Natasha. The only thing he knew was she was sent here, and then they lost contact with her. He didn't know why she was here-probably something with the radiation, obviously- or where to even start. Wandering around the city to get his bearings seemed good enough.

The jet lag was killing him, all he could remember from last night was falling asleep in the cab before being woken up by Bruce pulling him out by his arm. Then stumbling up some steps, Bruce muttering quickly about 'take off your shoes' and 'don't touch people with your feet' like he normally touched people with his feet or something. This morning was an even bigger blur, only being roughly woken up and being rushed down a dark flight of stairs came to mind.

Clint grit his teeth as some jackass slammed on their horn, fifteen others joining in like a pack of hungry coyotes. He turned the dial on his hearing aids a few times, trying to adapt to his environment while stumbling around half-asleep and half-dead. A little thought popped into his mind, the thought that this was a terrible mistake. This massive city with its buildings pressed flush together and total disregard for traffic laws, there was no way he was going to find Natasha.

But, he was the only one looking for her. SHIELD wasn't coming. Sure, she could probably handle whatever situation she was in herself, but that didn't mean Clint wasn't going to try to help out. Even though he usually just ended up bigger mess for her. She had spider-webs of plans all detailed out to the finest strand and intricately woven. She had back-ups for her back-ups, her disguises had disguises and Clint...Clint went in swinging and came out limping, every time. He wasn't an elite super solider spy, he was just a gutter kid with an iron will, heart of gold and some level six SHIELD advanced field training.

Even with all of Natasha's training and gadgets and tricks, nothing was going to stop a bullet. Even if Clint ignored it, Natasha messed up sometimes. There were days when they just knew this was their last run. Budapest for example; that was a tremendous futz up and it was their first 'mission' together. Of course, Clint had been sent to kill her, only his flimsy moral code had made him lower his bow and hold out his hand. Bad guys didn't have a moral code. If Natasha was down and she couldn't fight them off, there was nothing stopping the desk jockeys from stamping 'DECEASED' over her file cover and her ID number being retired.

Clint had been having dreams like that. Dreams where he was on one side of the glass and Natasha was on the other. His fists weren't strong enough to break it, and his pathetic pleas wen't unheard as he could only watch that strong Russian girl get torn down blow by blow or bullet by bullet and sometimes, arrow by arrow. Those dreams were the worst of them. Someone else in control of his body, wearing his skin to mask their horrible crimes, using his hands to kill his friends, covering them with blood. Those were the dreams that made him stay up for days and shift a little closer to whoever was on the couch next to him or pat shoulders more frequently. He just wanted some reassurance that his touches were friendly and light and welcome, or maybe it was a silent promise that he would never really hurt the ones he cares about. Not again. No matter how many dreams he had were he punched Tony in the arc reactor or shoved Steve off a roof or cussed Bruce up and down, he was never going to really hurt them. Never. 

Something made Clint's chest feel tight. It wasn't a grief tight or an angry clench(despite how the sun was making his T-shirt feel like sopping wet burlap and those fucking horns wouldn't stop and his backpack just weighed a freakin' ton), it was an anxious feeling. He looked around him, trying to see what might be causing it. Of course he felt like he was being watched, there were people everywhere, but didn't make the sensation of fingers running down his back disappear. In fact, it made it a little worse. People everywhere, in every nook, cranny and alley, just people everywhere. There were men by fruit stands with thick mustaches that were blowing sour cigarette smoke, women trying to herd their children down the street, loiterers leaning against walls and making easy conversation; just too many people to pin-point whether someone was a threat or not.

Clint bit the inside of his cheek, trying combat the breath taking heat bearing down on him, the paranoia and the chaos ringing in his ears, trying to stay sane for just a few more seconds. He peeked around a few more times, just in case, and caught sight of someone familiar. Bruce was kneeling in one of the many alleys in front of a child with four other adults leaning over him with interest. Bruce pressed behind the child's ears a few times, watching as the little boy winced before mumbling something to one of the men who quickly handed him a cigarette and a lighter. Clint watched as Bruce lit it with some difficulty before drawing in a mouthful and cupping his hand over the boy's ear and blowing the smoke in.

The boy giggled before covering his ears, trying to stop the tickling. Bruce couldn't help but smile back at him, turning to the man and explaining something as Clint cautiously approached. Everything sounded dull and distant, making Clint worry that his batteries were dying before he realized he had turned the volume down.

"-about three times a day until the symptoms start clearing up." Bruce ended before following the other's eyes to Clint. The friendly, welcoming air dropped a little and the archer couldn't help but feel like he invaded something private. "Need something?" Bruce asked as he stood up, putting out the end of the cigarette with his fingers before pocketing it.

"Kinda lost." Was all Clint could think to say, slipping his hands into his back-pockets as the-presumed-family behind Bruce left. "Ear infection?" He asked, gesturing to where they had been before his well, his intrusion.

Bruce looked where he motioned before nodding, picking up his backpack and slipping it on. It was probably more comfortable than the messenger bag. "Nothing a home-remedy can't fix." He smiled at Clint, one of those tight-lipped polite smiles. Once again, Clint felt like he had done something wrong. Before, in the lab, Bruce had been so nice and conversational, out here he was...territorial. "You said you're lost?" Bruce prompted, clasping his hands in front of himself.

"Uh, well," Clint tripped over his words a little as that feeling of being watched returned. "Maybe I could just follow you." He shrugged, Bruce's eyes narrowing minutely.

"Do you have the things I gave you?" He asked and Clint nodded quickly, taking off the burden he called his backpack. He pulled out the Geiger counter and the 'marker', showing them to Bruce.  
"Keep those out. We're going to need them." The scientist said, walking past Clint, back into the steady, ant-like flow of people.

Clint made a, irritated noise before following him, once again finding himself struggling to keep up with the smaller man. Bruce was at least a whole head shorter than him and little less than his weight In Clint's experience, short people were supposed to be the ones fighting to catch up with their stubby legs. But now, he felt like a bulky giant, lumbering along through a sea of people.

"I guess you [ - ] been [ - ] it, have [ - ]?" Bruce asked once Clint had managed to get close enough to (sort of) hear. The street noise was overwhelming, he could feel the honking rattling in his brain.

"Doc, you gotta look at me when you're talkin'." Clint sighed out.

"Sorry." Bruce apologized, slowing his pace so he could look at Clint. "The Geiger counter, you haven't been using it have you?"

"No, didn't even turn it on." Clint admitted.

"Not good." Bruce shook his head once before taking the counter from him and switching it on. Clint watched as the digital scale wavered, tipping here and there but never leaving the range of '1'. "You should have been marking the spots as you went. Could have saved a lot of time."

"I got a question, how do you treat radiation sickness or whatever?" Clint asked, cupping his hands around his face again as the sun seemed to get brighter.

"You don't, really. You get the radiated person away from the materials and wait." Bruce answered with a simple shrug, slowing to a stop as he adjusted a few things. "But, if they've been exposed to higher than four rems, well...nothing helps them." He said dryly, looking up at Clint. "They die in less than a week." The corner of his mouth twisted up in an apologetic smile before he looked down and carried on through the crowd.

"Yeah, but everything's good so far, it's not even over the one." Clint assured the back of Bruce's head just as the shorter man turned to say something to him-

Clint ducked on instinct, dragging Bruce down with him as the familiar ' _budda budda budda_ ' of a machine gun echoed in his ears over the yelps and screams of startled people. Bruce grabbed his wrist, staying crouched as he hurriedly led Clint behind a fruit stand made out of stacked boxes. It wasn't much for protection, but Clint realized it wasn't supposed to be a shield, it was supposed to be a hiding spot as men clad in the tell-tale drab uniform of military ran by.

"Stay here." Bruce whispered to Clint before attempting to stand, the guns growing louder.

"Hell no." Clint grabbed his arm, pulling him back down. "You're not going out there without m-" He was cut off as Bruce grabbed his head, pressing his face into his chest as heavy artillery vehicles rolled by with men running beside them. That sandalwood and lavender thing must stained in Bruce's clothes. Clint looked up when Bruce lifted his head, his brown eyes scanning over the landscape for remaining soldiers as the sounds of battle grew louder.

"You're staying." Bruce said firmly without looking back down at him, getting up and running down another alley towards the fight. When the boom of a missile slammed into Clint's hearing aids, he took them out, giving himself a few seconds to adjust before following after Bruce, digging through his bag for his folded bow.

Bruce had scaled the side of a store, surprising Clint by how apparently nimble he was. Of course, Clint had a grappling hook arrow, so he didn't have to find little cracks for hand-holds. All he had to do was climb up and see Bruce with a cell phone pressed to one side of his head and binoculars on. Without his hearing aids, Clint didn't know what he was saying or who he could possibly be talking to, but the risk of losing his hearing completely was growing with every fired missile that ripped through the air.

Clint tried to see what all the sudden excitement was about. All he could see from up here was people scattering and various military vehicles trying to create a barrier in front of the market. The air suddenly fell still, leaving the archer's body still humming from the after shocks of explosions. Clint turned when Bruce suddenly gripped his shoulder, expecting him to be angry and motioning him to go back, but instead, his lips read ' _look, look, look_ ' as he pushed the binoculars into his hands. Taking them, Clint looked through the crowd of armed men hiding behind cars and higher rank officials shouting commands, trying to see what Bruce was talking about when he saw her.

Stumbling out of the market with her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach, a woman with a long black braid of hair approached the line of vehicles. Her arms started shaking violently and she collapsed to her knees, dry heaving a few times before inky black goo spilled all over the ground and her red dress. Clint lowered the binoculars for a second, looking down at Bruce who was hurriedly typing on his phone again. It would have been a great time to make a 'this generation and their cell phone addiction' joke, but machine gun fire made him snap his head back to the action.

"They're killing her!" Clint didn't realize he shouted before attempting to climb down the building and rush to her aid, but Bruce grabbed his arm before he could move and pointed back to the scene. The woman was laying on the red drenched pavement, staring blankly up at the sky as her blood surrounded her. Clint was about to ask what Bruce was seeing when she moved. Just a flinch, a hint of life. Then, like a possessed doll, she jerkily rose, dark skin faintly blushing green as the gushing bullet holes began to heal.

Clint turned to Bruce, his eyes wide with horror and jaw slack. All Bruce did was nod once and say 'gamma sickness'. Another around of gun fire caught their attention, turning to see that the woman was now viciously attacking the line of army men, tearing them apart as her skin turned a more sure shade of green, black veins visible from their vantage point. Bruce tapped the agent's arm before going to the grappling hook and sliding down the rope with a little too much ease. Clint didn't waste time in following him, feeling several blasts at once tear through the air and knock him off balance. Missiles were a little over kill, no?

Bruce kept checking over his shoulder for him, seeing the agent struggling to run a straight line. Clint was slowing him down, and more importantly, the agent was going to get himself killed. Taking his arm, Bruce opened his mouth to give him instructions on how to reach the next town, but only got out a little squeak as a man crashed out of a window behind Clint, wildly spinning this way and that before noticing them and freezing.

"Run." Bruce said, eyes locked behind Clint. "Run." He pushed Clint to the side, urging him to go but the stubborn ass just wouldn't. "Run!" He shoved him hard, turning just in time to see the gamma sick man tearing after them. He was showing more signs that the woman, his skin covered in dark green patches with black veins pressing against his skin, eyes glowing and glassy as he bared his bloody teeth that poked out from under his thick mustache.

Bruce stumbled back, just in time to miss him as he lunged, spared from being crushed by only a few mere inches. The Hulk sensed something in the air wasn't right, something was starting a fight with Banner and he wasn't there to show it he was the strongest. Grabbing his head, Bruce attempted to calm down and back up at the same time. Hulking out wasn't an option. There were people still packed into the city, not to mention what kind of serious shit storm could come out of mixing the Hulk and the military again.

The gamma struck man was twisting and writhing in the dirt, letting out short clipped howls of pain as he pressed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets, back arching painfully off the ground. Bruce waved his hand for Clint to run, pressing himself against the back of a building for some sort of stability as the world tilted and spun, but the stubborn(stupid) agent shook his head. Eyes were on him, Bruce felt it stronger than he had been feeling it all day. He looked up just in time see another green bulging man leaning over the top of the building he was pressed against. His eyes were wide and his fingers were glowing at the tips. Jumping forward, and nearly tripping over the squirming man in his attempt escape, Bruce could only watch as one of Clint's signature purple arrows stuck solidly through the second attacker's throat.

"Come on!" Clint shouted louder than necessary over the pained and distorted howling, grabbing Bruce by the wrist and running with him through the small patch of dense forest. Bruce's pack was slamming hard against his back, and he debated dropping it just as he was lifted off the ground by the straps. "Shit!" Clint shouted, drawing another arrow to fire just as Bruce slipped out of the straps, landing roughly on the ground and scrambling backwards.

Clint didn't have time to react before the attacker hurled the heavy backpack at him. It was the one that had been writhing seconds earlier, identifiable by his mustache. Dark blood was leaking steadily out of his mouth and eyes, clouding his vision. Keeping his eyes locked on the man-beast, Bruce felt around for something sizable to throw, deciding on his phone just as the creature seemed to find Clint's scent. He threw it as hard as he could in the opposite direction, watching as the spun around and chased after the sound.

Bruce realized just how hard his heart was beating and took a deep breath in, attempting to settle himself before carefully crawling over to Clint, checking around them to make sure nothing was creeping up. He gently shook the agent, trying to uncurl him from his fetal position. Mechanically, Clint straightened out, hands protectively layered over his chest as his lips quivered out silent words. His breathing was hitched and shallow, telling Bruce that he had broken several ribs. Well, until Bruce realized the head of his arrow was poking through his chest. It had been pushed in backwards by the backpack.

"O-oh G-It's okay, stay here." Bruce said, gently patting his arm to reassure him before looking around once more, the unnerving feeling of eyes sticking all over him. "Just stay still. I-I have to get the phone to call Tony. Stay still." He gave him another few pats before standing up on adrenaline weakened legs as he went to where he had thrown his phone. The pseudo-Hulk must have went chasing after the battle since the little forest was clear of him. Bruce searched quickly for the phone, glancing up to check on Clint occasionally. He couldn't treat him out in the field like this. He couldn't pull the arrow out without risking him bleeding to death, and he couldn't leave it in without risking the same and various other things. Tony had answered his last call, so that was reassuring that he was coming, but Bruce still felt the need to stay in contact with him.

It actually felt kind of nice to have someone to call when things went sour. Some part of him was guilty for dragging him into this mess, but these people needed it. He and Tony had bounced 'what-if' ideas off each other a while ago, shortly after New York, one of those ideas had been a gamma emergency. Nations were still experimenting with it for a fall-out free weapon of destruction. Bruce's ideas were still being put to the test and his papers were still being read. The information he discovered and the research he did was deadlier than fifteen thousand Hulks. He was dangerous; mind, body, and soul.

"Crap." Bruce sighed, finding his phone crushed into a deep footprint. "Crapcrapcrapcrap." He uselessly tapped at the obliterated screen before standing up and looking back to where Clint had been. Had being the key word. It was now empty except for the backpacks. "Clint?" He called softly, looking around him for any signs of Clint having crawled off somewhere. There were a few drops of blood on the ground, but nothing else. No drag marks.

Something carried him away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ╭( .ㅂ･)و


	8. Lazarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Major Character injury, medical discussion, cancer.
> 
> Also, comic book science because it's the best science.

"Clint?" Bruce called out, voice just barely over a hoarse whisper as he continued to look about him. Clint was gone. Something-someone took him, just the seconds he had his back turned. He was gone. Finally rising over the shock came the panic. "Clint?" He whispered out again, shoving the backpacks over as if the man had crawled under them to hide.

He spun around a few times, checking over his shoulder to see if anyone-or anything-was sneaking up on him as he tried to find tracks in the wide leaves and under brush. There was nothing, hardly a disturbance, not a blood trail or footprint, and that just made his heart race harder. It was like Clint had simply vanished. He couldn't go back to New York without Clint. He couldn't live his life knowing Clint had just evaporated into the war wrecked air.

The ground remained bare of evidence as Bruce hurriedly searched, desperate for just a vague sign of life but all he was-

_"Run!"_

It stopped Bruce in his tracks, blood stopping in his veins as ice ran through his chest. It was unmistakably Clint's voice, but it was so strained and raw and _feral_ , like the scream of a trapped fox.

"Run, run, Bruce, run!" He screamed again, voice slightly stronger but muffled by distant gun fire. Bruce's heart lurched in his chest as two instincts clashed. They were both to run, but only one was for towards the voice. So he followed that one. He bolted through trees and brush with vines scraping at his skin and tangling in his hair as he hoped the forest hadn't played a trick on him, switching the direction of Clint's voice-if he was even calling at all. 

That wasn't a worry for long, as Bruce finally reached the end of the trees and came face-to-face with a ghost, his nightmare army crowded behind him. Despite how hard, calculating and disappointed General Thaddeus Ross always looked, there was a little smile to all of it. Maybe it was just an illusion, the way he always squinted, his crows feet being confused with laugh lines. But despite it, to Bruce at least, he was always smiling about some poor bastard's up-coming demise.

The current poor bastard being Clint. Ross was standing in front of a new breed of military tank that screamed 'Hulkbuster Program' with matching trucks and Humvees surrounding him. Clint was on his knees, the only thing keeping him from doubling over was Ross' death grip on the back of his shirt. The arrow was still lodged in his chest, dark blood spilling all over but Bruce dared to say Clint didn't look anywhere as close to death was he should be. His skin wasn't pale enough, his eyes were too alert but his breathing was swallow and quick and his head was barely titled enough to look up. Bruce let the scene sink in, because he knew this was the last time he was going to see either of them alive.

"Dr. Banner," Ross called to him, the way his tone was so conversational made Bruce want to vomit. "Long time, no see." He smirked. Some part of Bruce knew the general was too excited to think of some smart-ass greeting.

"Let him go, Ross. This is between us, leave him out of it." Bruce tried to keep his voice even, focusing his eyes hard on the general but he could see Clint shaking his head.

"Let's get to the point," Ross said, letting go of Clint's shirt so he could grab him by his short hair, drawing out his side arm and resting it on Clint's temple. "You know how this goes, Bruce. Don't drag it out."

"Ross-" Bruce tried to begin, feeling his stomach drop to his feet and his heart climb to his throat. His pulse was too fast, his pulse was too fast, his pulse was too fast, he needed to calm down but how do you _calm down_ in _this_ situation? Something struck Bruce then, the feeling of being watched from earlier. They had been watching them. Why else would they have taken Clint hostage? It was his fault. Clint was just looking for his partner and now he was a breath away from death. Bruce swallowed his heart back down. "I'll-" He moved to step forward.

"No, Bruce, he can't do anything," Clint rushed out, voice still strained and winded, but level enough that he could laugh. "I'm a SHIELD agent. He can't hurt me. I'm above him. He can't hurt me or he'll be in the deepest shit of his-"

**BANG**

Ross let go of Clint's hair, watching him was he limply fell to his side. Bruce only had a split second to process it all; Clint's empty wide eyes, Ross' confident smirk, the men pilling out of trucks with their guns raised as the tanks spun their canons towards him. He felt his heart beat once, then everything was washed away in a deep shade of green.

* * *

 

_The air was thick, too thick to breathe without feeling like you were caught in a house fire. Gun smoke-no, there was a hint of leather belt, so cigar smoke. Something dull and scraping, metal-the opening of a Band-Aid can, the kind his mother bought in bulk-a missile loading, the pain of a peer's well placed punch, explosion like books being slapped out of his hands and onto the floor or a dinner table being flipped over._

_Screaming, a woman screaming, the smell of blood heavy in the air, mixing with the gun-cigar-missile smoke. It was her, no, no, no, no not her, but **him**. Him, the one who smelled like gun-cigar-missile smoke with a leather belt and a mustache, but...wrong man. No, right man. But...different man. Same man, same kind of mean, same kind of hurt that tasted like blood and apologies but different some how. Chasing, running, digging under things that refuse to move but cave when hit. Like desks or buildings or bullies or tanks or guns. Small, soft, golden, dug from under a thing that not moves. Hold it softly, do not crush him, he's the class pet that escaped. No, he's the man with blood all over him. Responsible for both deaths. Nothing good here, just death, that he caused. Things smashed and ruined, women crying. Mothers crying. Momma crying._

_No where to hide. Can't find Momma. Can't hide, just run, air too thick with gun-cigar-missile smoke. Hold him softly, do not crush it. Things in the air. No, just one. Thing in the air. Shiny, like nickles. But wrong color for a nickle. Too much like blood, too much like the color of a class pet, or a man he won't crush, hold him gently. Grabbed him from the sky once, he was falling then. Not falling now. Flying now._

_Loud, just the same as last time. Every time he wakes up, it's so loud and so full of pain and the air is so thick that he wants to claw his way up to where the clean air should be. It's always so loud, the tanks make so much noise, the machines that spin around in circles make so much noise, the neighbors, the printer, the guns, the man not falling, all so loud. If he hits it hard enough, it'll be quiet. If he pulls it apart, it'll be quiet, if he kicks it or throws it or buries it, it'll be quiet and then he can breathe before the sirens come._

_Loud sometimes is a good thing. Loud wakes things up, loud wakes him up, so it wakes the man he won't crush, hold him gently. He's like the woman with the soft brown hair, Pretty Betty, he's soft and small and at first loud but then quiet. Good quiet. Not the crushed, smashed, pulled apart quiet. The man not falling, flying, comes and takes him. First feels bad, but then it's loud again and it hurts again and he needs to destroy it again, needs it to be quiet and not hurt. Not hurt the man he won't crush, not the man not falling. Needs it quiet just before the sirens come._

* * *

 

There was pain, and then there was this. Bruce rolled his eyes across his eyelids a few times, trying to pry them open before having to stop from the exhaustion that hit him. He was too tired to even breathe, but the will not to suffocate was forcing him to. Eventually, he convinced his eyes to open and was greeted with a hazy blur. His coffee must have fogged up his glasses.

But, that didn't make any sense, he was laying on his back. And when he reached up to take off his glasses, all he found was his face. The hair around his face was a little wet. When he managed to swallow the air in his mouth, it tasted coppery and red. Like blood.

Bruce's eyes snapped open, the haze clearing a little as he jerkily sat up and threw his feet over the side of the bed. Hospital. SHIELD hospital. Medical. Of course, he-the Other Guy-had-

"Oh no." He breathed out as he jumped-well, fell-down from the bed, feeling the cold tile send electric shocks through his feet.

Clint. Clint had gotten shot. In the head. He was dead. That's why he was in the hospital, so he had to go see Clint, see the man he murdered.

Bruce stumbled to the door, feeling his heart racing with the simple act of taking a few steps. He frantically pressed the button for the door to slide away once he realized there wasn't a handle. It finally did, and the same second he was trying to rush into the hall, someone was trying to come in and they collided.

"I-I-" Bruce tried to form a sentence, an apology, an explanation or a question but he looked up to see something bizarre and possibly not real.

"Hey, Doc." Clint smiled down at him, chuckling softly at the way the other man was gaping up at him.

"You...you...you..." Bruce muttered weakly, his hands mechanically tracing over Clint's chest, trying to find the arrow, the wound. All he found was solid, warm muscle. "You....you're..." He let his hands wonder up, fingers tenderly pressing where the bullet hole should have been. Nothing but hair and soft skin. Once he was somewhat convinced there were no holes in Clint, he simply stared up at him in shock and dazed wonder, hands still cupping his face.

"I'm fine, Bruce." Clint laughed, obviously a little uncomfortable with a blush covering his face. "I survived. Jade Jaws kinda helped out." Alive. Clint was alive. Somehow.

"...Amazing." Bruce whispered out before feeling his knees fall out from under him.

 

* * *

 "Nanomites." Bruce repeated softly, sipping his tea as he tried to process everything. Tony had gotten his call and made it to India, took out the Hulkbuster guys but Ross escaped. SHIELD was trying to figure out their standing on that shit-storm. Between the pseudo-Hulks, Ross, the real Hulk, Iron Man and the Indian military, Panaji was now considered wiped off the map. Natasha had been recovered, she was three hundred miles away, following a suspicious lead she said just before she passed out. Acute radiation poisoning. She would be fine, Clint was with her. And after Bruce had recovered from his fainting spell, Tony had immediately drug him down to the labs to show him what caused Clint's miracle recovery from the diagnoses of death by gun shot. This would be a temporary still, Bruce knew, because soon the storm was going to roll in and drown the crops.  

"Yes, nanomites! I mean, I always kind of played with the idea, but honestly they're impossible to manufacture in a timely fashion, the part and bits are just, microscopic and impossible to mass produce. Each one has to first be hand made, Bruce, _hand made_." Tony stressed, holding up his pinched together fingers. "And Barton just-just gets taken hostage and next thing you know, he has nanomites in his bloodstream-that's what fixed him up! They-they, well, I don't exactly know _how_ they work, but somehow they just, weaved his flesh together or something-Bruce, do you understand what this means? They can even eat away cancer! They can cure me!" He laughed loudly.

And suddenly, the air went for Bruce patiently listening to Tony's manic episode, to spilled beans. Tony straightened up, eyes steady and wide as Bruce's jaw hung slack.

"Cure you." He echoed softly.

"Uh, yeah." Tony jerkily nodded, looking down at the table and toying with one of Bruce's pens. "Cure me. Of my, you know, cancer."

It stayed silent for a moment, the kind of silent where one person is holding back on panicking and the other is barely containing apologies.

"...What kind?" Bruce managed, scaring himself slightly with his steady tone.

"Leukemia." Tony answered, still not looking up. For the second time, everything snapped into place. Of course, this was more profound. Not as sickening that someone was willing to kill another person just because they saw them with you, but it held it's own sickness. Tony pushed his old friends away, he started pushing everyone away. That could only mean he was preparing to die. He was just that kind of guy; piss everyone off so they'll spit on my grave instead of cry one it.

"How long?" Bruce asked, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, trying to calm the twisting of his stomach. "How long have you known?"

"About three weeks before you came back. I-" He sighed hard, looking up at the wall behind Bruce. "I tried to get treatment but this," Tony gave his arc reactor a tap. "It just wouldn't work out with the chemo and everything. Would have killed me faster. Made it worse."

Bruce pressed his lips hard together as he nodded stiffly.

"Look, but it's okay now! I can use some of Barton's blood, and the nanomites will reproduce and I'll be fine!" Tony held his arms open.

"Yeah. No." Bruce shook his head, making Tony drop his arms hard and glare at him. "Why would Ross give Clint nanomites? He threatened to kill him, the-his whole plan was to kill Clint if I didn't-" He had to stop, feeling his throat get sore and mouth go dry. "Look, all I'm saying is there must be something...bad, here." He shrugged.

Tony stayed still before nodding softly. "Yeah. You're-you might be right." He nodded again, shoulders falling and face going hundreds of years older.

"Doesn't mean we can't improve them." Bruce added softly. He wasn't going to kill off Tony's last hope. He wasn't going to let him go down without a long hard and furious fight. "We just need to find the bad thing first." He said, turning the microscope towards himself so he could examine the little nanomites, silver and buzzing among the blood cells. For now, he would stay hopeful. For now, he would stay optimistic and grateful while he could, before the storm came to drown the crops. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡ʇıɥs ɹnoʎ


End file.
